


Scrum-ptious

by TheOtherCourse (kanevixen)



Series: Tom and Abigail Series [64]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Engagement, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Rugby, Rugby and Sex, Sports, Tom and his two favorite activities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 15:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanevixen/pseuds/TheOtherCourse
Summary: On the eve of their wedding, Tom invites his bride-to-be to Regent’s Park to introduce her to some of his mates for university. As these things go, Tom has a healthy appetite for athleticism and eroticism. After a rousing rugby match with his university mates, he’s ready for an equally arousing go of sex in the park with his fiancee.





	Scrum-ptious

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the characters from Upstaged, In His Kiss,In Her Arms, Who Loves You, Baby?, The Road to Something Better,Regarding Abigail, Tom/Abby One Shots, All Tom/Abigail in chronological order - mentions of tackling, scraped knees and past Rugby injuries, lots and lots of Rugby terms that I use for my own personal enjoyment (but really have very little to do with the sport or the smut), a lot of really bad puns and semi-public sex (This takes place between chapter 21 and 22 of The Road to Something Better)
> 
> In setting out to overcome this writer’s block/slump, I overshot my original goal of a drabble of under 1000 words, by nearly 4 times that. But I owed this to @angel-of-malahide after an ill-advised, last minute road trip to Toronto to try and meet Tom on the set of Crimson Peak two years ago. I wrote part of it then, but actually scrapped most of it to write this.
> 
> Please forgive me if it’s rough, or needs work or editing, and all that. I’m a bit stiff and I need to find my harmony again. That’s what this drabble thing is all about, thank you to those that suggested some. I’ll do them all.
> 
> *running to hide behind a huge piece of furniture*

**Scrum-ptious**

> _Future wife, out with some mates from uni. Meet us round 6, I want to show you off – T xx_

My fiancé had followed the invitation with a picture of one of our beloved areas in Regent’s Park. I got the text message during rehearsal and didn’t see it until four in the afternoon. Having finished filming The Night Manager, Tom filled his free time with family and friends while I rehearsed with Benedict, Kathleen and James on the newly conceived production of the play, renamed as The State of Bea. A script that James wrote with me in mind to play the title character, the staging that we were finally putting back up on its feet after a major blow, of an absent producer and a change of director.

Tom and I booked our wedding, an elopement to Scotland to get married with only his family in attendance. The anticipation built as each day passed, the gap between engaged to man and wife shortened to less than ten days.

My new director Kathleen, her sympathetically warm smile, patted my back gently to get my attention from my mobile and the message from my intended. “Abby, James and I reviewed that section. We’ll rework it.”

Pocketing my phone, I nodded and turned to her. “I don’t think I’m hitting it quite right. Emotionally, it hits too high, before the next beat.”

She adjusted her glasses with a push of her crooked finger and opened her binder script. The section in question made the performance uneven and she agreed. “I’ve got it moved to a little later on… to here,” she pointed to the new beat. “James might rewrite something else, or we’ll work this change into this beat.”

I shouldered my bag to make a dash for the tube. “Thank you. I’ll feel better, the natural progression felt like a roller coaster instead of a bell.”

Working with Kathleen had been a different experience with James and Michael. The brothers collaborated well, but they didn’t quite make it open for me to suggest something within the performance. Michael and his crush on me made me clam up, reluctant to speak up. James appeared much more approachable once he’d stepped back as director, handing the reigns to Kathleen. The script about a woman struggling with motherhood had been his baby, his conception, his project, and he’d gotten too close to see some missing elements, something that Kathleen brought forward as a woman and a mother herself.

“We’ll get it sorted, Abby,” she dropped her voice to plotting whisper “before you go off on holiday.”

I’d confided in her exclusively that Tom and I planned to elope and I’d be gone for nearly three weeks. Her words and meaning set off the butterflies in my belly that stilled and quieted during my rehearsal, but the elation skirted along my nerve endings again. Blushing, I smiled at my feet, the reminder of my impending secret rendezvous with my beautiful man turning me to jelly. “Thanks, Kathleen,” I couldn’t look at her for fear that I’d gush all over her about my upcoming nuptials.

She squeezed my hand and sent me on my way. “I’ll see you tomorrow, soon-to-be-Mrs.”

I skipped to the underground station and floated onto the car to take me home, the home I shared with my sweetheart. Through my elation over my nearing wedding, I didn’t register the ride or swapping my comfy rehearsal clothes for a cute summer dress to meet Tom and his mates.

I didn’t know what to expect given a setting like Regents Park but I couldn’t be surprised by the masculine display of athleticism, agility, speed and skill when I arrived. Tom sprinted amongst the pack of eight sweaty men, all over six foot tall, all lean, all fit, all with sights for an oblong white ball in play. My fiancé had bulked up for The Night Manager and his role as a former British soldier after dropping so much weight for Hank Williams in I Saw the Light. He’d never been in better shape and he trained to maintain his physique or his next shoot: Skull Island.

I did my part to encourage him. Since our reconciliation and our unexpected time together, I made myself available to him whenever the mood struck. The increase of endorphins and oxytocin from his workouts made Tom’s libido spike often. When it did, the only thing he wanted was sex. I couldn’t complain, he excelled at making me reap the benefits.

Watching him exert so much energy running and tackling his mates was nothing short of erotic. The power in his muscles made me come apart almost daily. The stretch and flex of each muscle within his frame, I knew them all by touch.

On the next kick off, Zane, a bloke I’d met at a dinner, punted the ball down the pitch, his aim almost dead center, splitting the pitch in two halves. All eight men, including my own, took off full speed to gain control of the ball. Tom hugged the outside of the field, falling back to catch a pass thrown to him. Pete, a bloke on holiday from his boring office job for the city of London, paced his strides, avoiding a tackle by a few lucky centimeters from his tracking opponent, hot on his heals to steal the ball back. Pete cradled the rugby ball in his arm, his grip sure and confident.

His gait elongated to a quick burst of energy, fueled by his desire to put a little more distance to two other blokes closing in on him as if he carried the key to immortality. Just when it looked like Pete would be taken out, he tossed the ball to another player, Chris who in turn tossed it backwards towards Tom, catching the ball with ease. All eyes were focused on that ball and Tom’s seamless open avenue towards the opposition’s goal line.

The two blokes that flanked Pete soared after my man, taking chase after their prize, attempting to avoid another point against them. Tom’s legs pumped, his knees higher than his regular run, faster than I’d ever seen him go. With murder in the eyes of their eyes, the two blokes chasing him stretched to grab my man as he sleekly moved down the pitch, effectively keeping the ball from them and going for a five point try.

The speed of the run down the pitch never faltered or slowed, all eight men flowing down the field, finding the path of least resistance while their motivation dictated their movement: to score or to stop the opponent from scoring. The play followed through like a dance, the offensive holding, running or punting the ball down the field with the defensive doing everything to prevent them. Tom relinquished the ball with a flick, the ball flew in a steady arm from his elegant hands to Pete’s when the defensive nearly tackled him. Pete threw the ball back to Tom who ran full tilt into a dive for the goal line, ball securely in his arms. Three other blokes landed on him, the momentum of their run landing them in a heap on top of Tom.

It took every ounce of self-control I had in my possession to keep from running to him, to pull those overgrown monsters off my man and to check for permanent damage. As quickly as the play ended, the men were back on their feet, the ball advancing up the pitch in the opposite direction. My Tom, smiling from his short victory, rose from the dirt and mud, appeared unhurt and jogged down the field in the defensive position.

The round robin competition crisscrossed over the open ground, more mud than grass from London’s wet summer. Every lap edged more towards ruthless, fierce combat, to the point of aggressiveness with each other. The friendly mates from uni had become as hard and rough as the professional counterpart rugby players, dead set on winning instead of enjoying the play of the game.

At first, I watched with interest, Tom engaged in an activity that didn’t involve me. It was an out of body sort of experience, detached fascination. For me, as future wife, this display of Tom seemed similar to his actor persona. In his years in the public eye, Tom had perfected this guarded, yet playful enthusiastic accessibility when it came to interviews. He rarely, if ever, spoke of anything personal, but his charisma easily covered that fact, and audiences were drawn to him.

My Tom, after all our time together, opened up to me, showed his sentimental side, and told me stories of his past with more detail. He shaved off parts of his rigidity, his sense of structure and schedule, and lived in the moment with me. Seeing his interaction and tackles on the field brought back some of that early Tom I knew, the one that I met at the Donmar Warehouse on the first day of rehearsals for  _Splintered_.

The confident actor well aware of my fangirl crush on him collided my unquenchable lust for him, and we’d been clashing and exploding ever since.

The detached interest faded with the third tackle that Tom found himself at the bottom of. When he got to his feet, with the help of a teammate, Tom wore specks and smears of mud. He shook off the play with a laugh, a slap on Zane’s back and a hand through his sweat soaked hair, his fingers caked with dirt. The attraction that I felt for him, never far, took hold of me like a ghost possession using my body for their unfinished business.

By the time the teams took a half time break, Tom looked drenched with sweat, filthy from mud and grass stains and scraped knees, dried blood mixed with mud. He jogged to where I stood, in my confused state of arousal, concern, fear and shock.

“Baby,” he greeted with a grin, his elation alighting his eyes and shone through the grime. The natural high of endorphins and virility cloaked him like his bespoke suits, fitted to perfection. His arms mauled me in an enthusiastic embrace while his mouth swallowed my weak objection with a passionately searing kiss.

Maybe the dress could be cleaned…

Maybe it needed burning…

With his mouth on me, I didn’t care. When he broke the kiss, I commented, “I wasn’t sure if you knew I was here.”

Despite his gritty fingers, he curled strands of my hair behind my ears. (I didn’t mind that either.) “I can feel you when you’re near.”

I rolled my eyes at his attempt for charming while looking the picture of manly man. “Oh, houseboy… if your mates could hear you now…”

The men had all scattered during the break, going for their mobile or water bottles or a quick stretch against a neighboring tree.

Competitive vigor sunk his hands down my back to my bum to squeeze the flesh he sought. Every muscle in his body against mine felt at the ready, aware of female softness against him. He controlled every fiber of his body, and in those heated moments, mine too. The feral Alpha Tom with the possessive claim over me had me besotted and distracted with his assertive public displays of affection.

“Houseboy?” The right eyebrow shot up his forehead, challenging my sass.

A promise to devour me.

A threat to ravage me.

That eyebrow swore a certain amount of debauchery once we were alone… or almost alone. Sometimes Tom couldn’t wait that long. Sometimes I couldn’t either.

“It was a prestigious honor in my school, baby.”

Pressing into him, I let my gaze linger over his lips so he knew I was thinking of other activities, equally as hearty as the impromptu rugby match. “Did you make your mates call you houseboy?”

My fiancé leered down at me, roughly squeezing me against him. Arrogantly, he reveled in the challenge I presented him. “Do you want to call me that, Abby? I’ll give you  _many_  reasons not to.” His eyes gleamed with mischief, causing the mayhem of butterflies in my belly into another frenzy of beating wings.

My cheeky response, “Exactly how many reasons?”

He lowered his lips and intimated in my ear, “All the reasons.” He drew out the low seductive and sinful words for full effect.

I shuddered in his arms feeling like I’d already been fucked within an inch of my life, yet still wanting him to take another few. His wickedly smug laugh sounded in my ear and rolled through me, a tsunami of desire and craving.

Mercifully, a man yelled from some distance from us, saving Tom and me from our inevitable embarrassment. “Is that her? Is that Abigail?” The dull thud of stomping feet approached as Tom and I reluctantly separated.

My man didn’t let me go far, his fingers subconsciously clutching at my middle. The struggle of showing me off to his friends and selfishly keeping me to himself wreaked havoc on his pride. He lived that tug of war within himself, that jealousy that lived under the surface and the proud confident man.

Lacing my fingers through his to comfort him, I used his grip on me for strength in having so much attention on me. The shy girl wanted to run and hide, overwhelmed by the focus, but I had Tom to lean on and protect me. I blushed and stammered through all the introductions and acquaintances, some shaking my hand, some kissing my cheek and some waving hello. As far as meetings like this, it went by quickly and without pain.

The men chomped at the bit, wanting to get back out on the field to finish their game, instead of talking to the female for more than the polite few minutes. I didn’t mind it, except for Tom putting himself back out there.

“Is this a good idea, babe?”

Swiping a finger down my cheek affectionately, his voracious expression softened for my benefit. “My woman, I’m touched that you’re concerned for me.”

“Rugby is vicious, brutal to fingers and noses. I fancy all your bits and I selfishly want them back.” Our fingers danced and twirled around each other.

“These blokes, they won’t hurt me. I can take them.”

“I have a vested interest in my beautiful man being… my beautiful man.”

“Don’t worry on this, just having a bit of a laugh,” he dismissed arrogantly. “I can take them on.”

“There’s no question. I’m worried about the pieces of you we have to sacrifice to prove that you’re the best.”

“Baby, it’s only a practice game, throwing and kicking the ball around a bit.”

“Thomas, the injuries… you’ve already shed blood. Rugby injuries from a single practice outnumber your fans, male and female combined.”

Petting my hair in his way, he gazed longingly back out at the pitch, his mates awaiting his appearance on the field. “I played for many years, love, and I’m in the best shape of my life. Just a reunion, love. I miss these guys.”

I understood rugby, saw the broken bones and blood when my first love at seventeen played the game. Brian played for the Lowestoft Rugby team before I met him, and all through the year that we dated. He broke his nose, two fingers and shattered his shin playing after a particularly vicious scrum. “But if you get dead, that’s obviously the last time you’ll get to play.”

“I’ll take these blokes – easy, and then I’m going to take you -  _hard_.”

Appeasing the sex kitten brushing up against his leg, an intelligent choice that worked most of the time with me, but not this time. “I need you in one piece to enjoy that, and I need you in one piece when we get married. Picture perfect.”

“You’ve got my word, baby.” He lifted my chin to land a big wet kiss on my lips before he made for the pitch.

I yelled after him, “If you die, I’m gonna kill you!”

Laughing, he spun around to blow me another kiss, his feet carrying him further into the pitch. He called back, “Love you too, baby.”

*

The game had ended with a tie when night fell and the pitch became too dark to continue. Tom led me home, while I complained about watching from the sidelines, unable to help when he had gotten knocked around a bit. He felt fine, recovered himself with a drink of water and didn’t complain of any residual pain. “I’m perfectly fine, baby.”

Along our walk home, Tom coiled his arm around my waist, an excuse to pinch my bum and pull me off the path to hide. He silenced me with kisses as he sidetracked us towards the entrance to the Open Air Theatre, darkened and closed in preparation for Peter Pan opening next week. Behind an eight foot black notice board announcing upcoming productions including the boy who never wanted to grow up, Tom pressed me against the side of the building, using his body to trap me.

Breathlessly, I clawed desperately at his shirt, the frustration of waiting semi-patiently on the sidelines for my man to finish his game to conquer me and the thrill of possibility of being caught made my hands shake. “The smack and grunts of that last scrum… you were at the bottom—“

“—at the center,” he countered with a ginormous grin. His lips then closed over a spot on my neck as he walked his fingers along the skirt of my dress, gathering the material up to expose my thigh.

“—of a pile of men… it was horrendous—“ I searched for a way to pull at his shorts blindly, the dark closing in around us, concealing our affection for one another. I hadn’t the first idea what I was saying, preferring to lose myself in his lust.

“—brilliant fun, Abby.” With my skirt up around my middle, Tom busied himself with my knickers, snapping them along my thigh so I yelped into his hungry kiss, and rolling them down my legs. His hands clasped at my bum, cradling me to him in our impassioned cuddle.

I wiggled and struggled with his questing fingers, guiding him to where I needed to be touched, but this seduction was on his terms. He took his time, savoring each inch of flesh he came upon, mapping the length of my leg, drawing small circles as he ascended. I moaned his name, anxious for another advance in this tryst, “Thomas… please—“

“Did you want a tackle, Abby?” He gently nudged my feet apart, spreading my legs.

Giggling at the pun that formed in my head, I intoned, “Yes, an ankle tap.” After all these years, I held some of the rugby terms in the back of my head as useless information. The appropriate term for the action that Tom performed, and I giggled at my own joke.

Abandoning my thighs, Tom pulled the collar of my dress down over my shoulder with his hands for his lips to wander over my breast bone. His fingers latched on to my breasts as my hands dipped into the waistband of his shorts, filling palms with masculine skin. His natural heat burned, but I only wanted more. Squeezing my hardened nipples, he chuckled against my nearly bared breast, sending sensation over my pores. “Is this the time for jokes, my little minx?”

Thrusting his erection against me, I gasped-giggled through the jolt of pleasure. “Obstruction… this- obstruction…” I pulled at his shorts, wanting to get him free, punning my way through another public display of affection, a habit we’d formed over recent months.

Exposing my breast, Tom sealed his lips over one nipple filling his mouth with my flesh, and I nearly collapsed under the onslaught of need to him to make me come. “Professional foul,” he punned around my breast. He flicked his tongue over my tingling nipple, pointed from his concentration on it. Blowing air over the wet that he left behind on his trek to the neglected breast, he chuckled again.

“Ruck me, Hiddleston.” Shoving my hand into his shorts, I wrapped my hand around his cock, giving it a squeeze. “Ruck me with this… tight… head…?”

We both laughed at the creative use for rugby positions. As we did, Tom turned me around to face the wall, placing my hands against it with his overlaying mine. Bending at the waist, I felt him position himself at my ‘overlap’ and bite my shoulder in his yearning to bury himself inside me. “Spear tackle,” he mumbled against my abused skin as he pressed into me smoothly.

Wetter than a London rainy day, my body was poised and ready for him to take full advantage of me. Even as he pressed forward with his hips, his back covering mine, his hand held me tenderly at the waist, directing me in his gently assertiveness. He groaned against my hair, breathing in my peach smell, feeling my body grip him in an exquisite sheath.

Even in our desperation, our fucking reflected the bond we’d forged in our time together, each stroke an expression of our affection, each moan a gesture of our consideration, each caress a show of our link to one another. In the dark, almost in public, we connected. He bucked and I pushed back. The pleasure we created together surpassed any other high that we sought individually.

As ecstasy consumed me, my limbs trembled under the intense emotion that I had for my man, and how he could talk me into fucking in the park every damn time. He came right behind me, whispering more words that should never have been brought into our lovemaking: “Goal!” “Kick-off” “Mark” and my personal favorites “Tunnel” and “Use it or Lose it.”

I couldn’t even be mad since I started it, and that’s how Tom and I enjoyed each other. When I straightened my dress, I turned around and found myself back in my fiance’s arms, his lips pressing kisses against my cheek. “So that’s how we play rugby, is it, husband?”

“I enjoyed the fuck out of it.”

“Let’s restart home, and we’ll see if we can’t perfect the two person scrum,” I suggested, squeezing his bum as he’d squeezed mine.

His teeth grazed my ear and his tongue tasted my earlobe. “Abby, you’re delightfully scrum-ptious.”

* * *

 


End file.
